


Ministering Angel

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how old you are, sometimes you need your mom. Or the next best thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ministering Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Written September 2006; triple drabble written for LiveJournal SN100 challenge #129, _Drugs_.

Casey lies about his migraines. He's afraid to seem like a wimp, kicking up a fuss about what, to most people, is no more than a bad headache. Plus, suddenly everyone's a medical expert: "Cut out coffee," they'll advise, as if he'd never thought to try that - and chocolate, wine, all the usual suspects. Lisa used to burn lavender oil in his room, which made him sick, and try to give him head massages, which made him sicker yet. The only one who'd ever understood was his mom; she'd flit about his room in near-silence, anticipate his needs, tenderly solicitous.

So he blames it on the stomach flu; shuts himself away in his darkened bedroom with a shitload of painkillers, knocks himself out, hoping when he wakes the pain will be gone. Sometimes it is. Sometimes, as now, it lasts for days, and his cover story wears thin.

He slides into an uncomfortable doze; half-dreams the door opening, soft movement around the apartment: rustling, a hastily-stilled clatter, water running, the toilet flushing. When the no-longer-cold cloth over his eyes is lifted and replaced by a fresh one he knows he must be awake, but can't muster the strength to speak.

The sparks eventually fade. When he can see again, he finds his water glass refilled, an unopened packet of Excedrin beside it, the basin by the bedside rinsed clean. There's food in the kitchen: eggs, soup, bread, simple things ready for when he can face them.

These are the things that his mom used to do for him. He remembers her scent: White Linen, fresh and revitalising, cutting through the miasma of sickness. The air holds the hint of another cologne now: far different, yet every bit as familiar and dear.

Casey drifts peacefully back into sleep, knowing himself blessed.

***


End file.
